Of Broken Noses And Bloggers
by BulletsCoffeeFaith
Summary: John gets a bit testy at a crime scene when Anderson picks on our favorite detective. Gen; oneshot. My first-ever venture into the Sherlock fandom, so I'm dearly hoping it's up to par.


John Watson could not bring himself to understand Sherlock Holmes.

In the past six months that he'd been living with the man – and consequently helping him on cases – however, John had developed a sort of brotherly attachment toward Sherlock (_God_ help him.) Whilst he often did have the unbelievably strong urge to clock the younger man, John also couldn't help the urge to protect his flatmate when the situation called for it.

Of course, there were certain occasions when this was not the smartest move he could make – occasions where he didn't stop to think that Sherlock could have somehow gotten out uninjured, as he always did, _before_ he went and threw himself in the line of fire in Sherlock's place.

But there were also occasions (such as this one) where John thought it entirely acceptable to get a bit protective.

He watched as said consulting detective examined the young teacher's body across the schoolyard. He had taken no flashlight or anything of the sort to the deceased as the police had done, and he was certainly getting along much faster than all of them had. John knew the look that plagued his friend's face, having seen it so many times before. His eyes were darting impossibly fast over the woman, mathematically figuring things that John or the others wouldn't have imagined in their wildest dreams. That look meant he was deducing the victim's entire life story and personality by the color of her wrist-watch or the state of her hair.

"Honestly, if he _thinks_ he knows better than we do..."

The voice was floating from a distance, and John almost hadn't caught the words being said, but the bitterness in the voice was unmistakable. Feeling a bubble of annoyance rising through his chest, John turned to look.

Sure enough, Anderson was strolling slowly throughout the yard with Donovan at his side, evidently taking no interest in the fact that everyone – including Sherlock, most likely, who was crouching only ten feet from the man – could hear him quite clearly. In fact, John was sure that having everyone hear him was his reasoning behind speaking up in the first place. It was no secret that Anderson despised Sherlock Holmes with a deep passion.

"He has _no idea_ what he's doing, the fool," Anderson was saying loudly, heatedly. "He's a psychopath, that's what he is! Biding his time until he goes totally nutters and turns on all of us, I'm telling you..."

Most of the Yarders on the scene cracked a smile at these words, the braver handful even chuckling, but none of them had the guts to join in on the rude banter. None of them would be slow to admit that they hated Holmes. Every one of them also happened to be far too cowardly to say what they thought straight to the man's face. John was only glad that Sherlock was too immersed in the the victim to take in any of the living people around him. True, the man seemed to be quite emotionless – not even human at times – but John knew it would annoy him at the least to have a courtyard of people who required his assistance badmouthing him.

"Doesn't even know how to make _friends_ without scaring them off. That's why he's all _alone_, the damned freak."

Sherlock did look up at this, but his face was emotionless as ever. He simply stared ahead, toward an empty spot in the courtyard. He was obviously tuning in just as everyone else was. He did not bother to look at Anderson as he continued on about his so-called loneliness, instead continuing his examination just as regularly as he had been before. John tried to dispel the anger that was slowly bubbling up inside of him. If Sherlock didn't care, he shouldn't, either. If it wasn't hurting anyone then it wasn't his place to break Anderson's nose, much as he wished he could.

But Anderson, it seemed, was very intrigued with John's temperament and level of patience. Seeing that the man had migrated so that he was standing next to his flatmate and the body – something John himself hadn't noticed himself until just this very moment – he smirked lightly and approached them with an arrogantly swinging step. Donovan, who was beginning to look uncomfortable with the situation, no longer followed him like a lapdog. She was advancing, instead, on the other side of the deceased at a much slower pace than her colleague.

"Don't you _agree_, John?" Anderson mocked loudly, completely disregarding the frustrated warning look Lestrade was continually shooting at him. "Isn't this _freak_ just stinking up investigation after investigation? Honestly, I don't know why we _let_ him onto these crime scenes in the first place. He's _obviously_ just trying to prove he's better than all of us, when in reality he knows he's truly nothing more than a piece of useless sh-"

Anderson broke off with a sudden cry of pain, falling back onto his ass and cupping a hand over his nose, which – thanks to John Watson's fist – was now bleeding profusely and appeared to be rather badly broken.

Several of the Yarders backed away slightly, shying from John's now-obvious boiling fury. He vaguely recognized them as the few that had chuckled. He felt a brief burst of satisfaction to see their very sudden change of heart.

Others were simply gaping, open-mouthed, at Anderson or John himself. Lestrade, the veteran noted dimly, was trying to bite back a small smile as he asked one of his assistants to retrieve a first add kit from his cop cruiser.

Sherlock's reaction was just as dull and predictable as usual. He watched Anderson with a single raised eyebrow and no emotion on his face as the man staggered upward again, blushing and glaring at the detective's blogger. After a few moments of this, he straightened up quite suddenly and pulled the single white glove from his hand.

"From what I can tell," he turned to Lestrade, not looking the least bit interested in what had just occurred as he gave his report, "the woman is single, either that or she's dated a lot of men. No ring to show any sign of commitment, and her entire ring finger has been tanned along with the rest of her hand, so it isn't likely that she has simply removed any important rings for the time being. She has two children, however, as you can tell from the pictures in her wallet. Both male, both under the age of three years, though neither of them look like her or like one another in the slightest, so they obviously come from different fathers, most likely men she had no emotional attachment to. She's very dedicated to her work and very fond of her students, as alongside her children there are pictures of her different classes over the past several years. Judging by the damage done to what appears to be her freshly manicured nails, and the wooden splinters caught in her hands, I'd say she was dragged against her will – no way she'd be here at two in the morning, three miles from her home in her night dress, I wouldn't be. As far as her cause of death, there are no life-threatening injuries to be seen, so it must have been a poison of some sort."

Lestrade opened his mouth and inhaled here, clearly hoping to get a word in through the detective's rant, but Sherlock cut him off once more.

"It wasn't a blow to the head, obviously," he said, staring at the man as if he'd lost his mind. "No bumps, no blood; what sort of head wound leaves neither? An autopsy must be completed before I can reach any solid conclusion; I would suggest Molly Hooper at St. Bart's."

Clearly done with the one-sided conversation, Sherlock bade Lestrade goodbye with a quick nod of the head and began strolling immediately toward the cab that had been waiting for them. He seemed to be oblivious to the gawking eyes that still watched him go, or the grumbling voice of an extremely embarrassed Anderson that followed him.

Giving Lestrade a slight smile and a much more proper, "We'll call you if anything turns up," he took off after his indescribably strange flatmate.

"That was unnecessary," Sherlock said shortly the second they had climbed into the car.

"It _really_ wasn't." John's voice was slightly heated. Sherlock stared at him as though he was having trouble deciphering him (_hah!_) John stared directly back, unfazed.

After several moments of what seemed to John like an endless, awkward staring contest, Sherlock turned back to look out the cab window. John assumed he had turned his thoughts back toward the case.

If the younger man gave him a soft, "thank you," about ten minutes later, and if John replied with a warm "you're welcome" and a very slight smile, they did not speak of it again.


End file.
